


A natural progression of things

by AnnaBolena



Series: A Series of Progressions [1]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 15k words of courferre fight me, Courferre through the ages, Getting their shit together, M/M, absurd closeness, two boys kissing all the fucking time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2018-08-06
Packaged: 2019-06-18 05:48:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,375
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15478983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaBolena/pseuds/AnnaBolena
Summary: Bahorel tactfully waits until Combeferre has ended his call before raising his eyebrows in complete and utter disbelief."You expect me to believe that the tenderness with which he manhandled you just now is in no way supposed to be romantic?"Combeferre shrugs. "We’ve always been like that."a.k.a. a take on how Combeferre and Courfeyrac have always been the most important part of each other with bonus Enjoltaire peppered in between





	A natural progression of things

**Author's Note:**

> Hi so this is my first time writing in the Les Mis fandom because after almost eight years of it being my favorite book I finally got my shit together enough to produce something for it that I don't hate. Inspired by the beautiful dynamic that is Killian Donnelly and Fra Fee, those absolute angels. c: Hope you enjoy. 
> 
> Slight warning for one or two lightly homophobic characters and racial tension.

Their first kiss happened when Courfeyrac turned four, a few months after Enjolras hit that milestone and about half a year after Combeferre. All three of them grew up in the same neighborhood in Southern France, secluded and far removed from the worries of what would be idealized in later years as ‘The Real World’.

The Combeferre family home was the largest, designated number 15 on their street, both of his parents being accomplished in their own fields. His mother is a quantum physicist, his father a geologist of wide acclaim.  The Enjolras household was further up the street, only marginally smaller because despite being the highest-paid of all their parents, Mr. Enjolras was a single parent who focused all of his free time on teaching his son about life and building up the intelligence he recognized in him. This house was number 27, on their street.  The third house in this constellation, numéro 17, where a mother - a nurse - and her son resided, was less spacious but very inviting nonetheless, a large blue door drawing visitors in immediately.

Courfeyrac’s mother, a loud and joyful woman who loved her son very much, always kissed him good morning when he slid down the stairs, holding onto the railing as his fuzzy socks provided but little traction. " _Ay, mi vida_ , when someone is important to you, when someone is your family, you kiss them. _¿bueno?_ "

Her son had nodded, solemnly, and pecked her on the lips, grinning. " _Te quiero mucho, Mami,"_ he said. "I love you too, my boy. So, so much."

Later that day he had dug around in the mud with Combeferre in the woods behind their adjoining backyards, and together they had caught a bug that excited his friend beyond reason. Combeferre’s finger stroked the glass of the container they entrapped the valiant beast in, as he pointed out the different stripes on the animal. Courfeyrac observed, rapt.  " _Odontotarsus_ ," Combeferre pronounced succinctly, with the unmatched enthusiasm of an almost-five-year-old. "There was a picture of one in National Geographic. My Dad showed me." 

Courfeyrac had thought seriously about Combeferre then, and come to the conclusion that he was indeed family, so he surged forward to peck him on the lips. Combeferre had grinned in return and leapt forward like a frog to do the same. That was that.

"Let’s go show Enj the _Onontodotodarsust_ ," Courfeyrac pleaded, botching the scientific name and happily parroting Combeferre until he got it right.  Their friend and the blonde contrast to their dark-haired duo, though interested in learning about bugs, could never quite muster the same zeal in actually coming into contact with such creatures, and ended up crying when Courfeyrac tried to get him to touch it.  The next day Courfeyrac apologized and Enjolras forgave him, sternly making him promise not to force him to touch an insect again. Because Combeferre was already nodding thoughtfully, Courfeyrac agreed to the promise. It was only reasonable, after all.

+

Enjolras has never been as receptive to touch as Combeferre is, and so Courfeyrac and Combeferre gravitate towards one another for physical comfort.

(That is not to say that Enjolras does not need the occasional hug, but more that he picks very carefully when he seeks out such comfort. And it is always a matter of whether or not _he_ is willing to initiate. Combeferre and Courfeyrac never mind contact, but Enjolras needs to do it on his terms.)

Courfeyrac falls off his bike when he tries to use it without training wheels and wails for ‘Ferre’ until his mother apologetically rings the bell next door and explains the situation to Combeferre’s mother, who looks more amused than anything. "Henri!" She calls up the stairs and a quick patter of bare, sticky feet signals his arrival and Courfeyrac grabs for his hand immediately.  Combeferre pulls Courfeyrac into his arms and they hide in his treehouse out back, the one he built with his father last summer, when he showed him how to use rocks to make the decorations inside as well, until Enjolras joins them with a mandala book he bought at the kiosque for Courfeyrac when he heard what happened.

They all have different ways of coping with pain. Courfeyrac plays with crayons when he gets upset. Enjolras sucks his thumb, though he is trying to grow out of that. Combeferre frowns and retreats within himself to think. The knee does not even hurt anymore, Courfeyrac notices. He has his two best friends right here with him and that is all he will ever need.

+ 

Combeferre’s father dies of pancreatic cancer that year and the situation is reversed as he reaches up on tip toes to use the knocker on the big blue door to the Courfeyrac household. Mrs. Courfeyrac opens and crouches down in concern when she sees a sniffling five year old in front of her. "Is Felix there?" He enters the bedroom in which Courfeyrac is playing with crayons. They lie on the floor next to each other, all day, pinkie fingers intertwined. Combeferre discovers that he likes this as well, and he shows Courfeyrac how to draw his favorite moths. Courfeyrac shows him how to doodle a dinosaur with comically large eyes and bloodstained teeth.

Courf’s mother brings them almond milk and cookies. (Combeferre can’t have regular milk, he is severely lactose-intolerant, and anyway, his Mommy says that it’s cruel to steal milk that was intended for cow babies. He would much rather steal milk from Almonds, they don’t have babies, he thinks.)

"I want to be a doctor," Combeferre whispers as they hold hands when his father’s ashes scatter in the wind. His mother has released a handful, and now Combeferre has, and now he waits for Courfeyrac to do the same.

(His grandmother had said something skeptical about letting a Christian participate in their funeral traditions, but his mother had respectfully enforced her approval. "Felix is the closest person in Henri’s life, Priẏa mā, he needs him. Julien should come as well." "Jeetu wouldn’t have minded, mother," his aunt had supplied, coaxing, "Actually I think he would have found it inspiring.")

"Good. I want to be an astronaut," Courfeyrac whispers back, solemnly. Their hands squeeze tight. Enjolras stands on Combeferre’s other side and doesn’t say anything at all, looking thoughtfully at the ashes as though they hold the answer to a question he doesn’t know how to ask himself. Combeferre doesn’t remember Enjolras’ mother, and he doesn’t think Enjolras does either – that makes him sad. At least Combeferre will have memories.

 +

Combeferre gets glasses the fall they start CP together. The thought of school, of being thrown into a new group of kids and maybe not being in the same classes as Enjolras and Courfeyrac scares him. He doesn’t like the glasses on himself but Courfeyrac pulls them on his own face and shakes his head, dazed.

"Everything is fuzzy," Courfeyrac gushes. Combeferre giggles when Courfeyrac tries to make his way across the room and keeps stubbing his toe lightly. They laugh until Courfeyrac gets a headache from wearing his glasses too long and then Enjolras rushes downstairs to get Combeferre’s mother because he is _concerned_.  Later that night Combeferre looks at himself in the mirror. He looks at the skin some of the children sometimes point at, darker than most people he has seen around here, darker than most people he sees when they visit Baba’s extended family near Calcutta, passed on as a blend of both his parents’ skin tones, and he looks at the brown eyes that almost appear black, now appearing even larger when he puts the thick rounded glasses on. He looks at thick stray black hairs that fall into his face whenever he does not push them down into obedience. If Courfeyrac likes them, Combeferre decides, maybe they aren’t so bad.

+

The first time that Courfeyrac and Combeferre meet any kind of opposition to their friendship is on the first day of _cours préparatoire_ , the first school year. All three of them end up in the same class. Enjolras says it is because his Dad says they try to compose the classes in regards to who lives in which neighborhoods. Combeferre is nervous because of his glasses and tells a frowning Courfeyrac as much.

"I will punch anyone who says they are stupid." Courfeyrac is a gentle soul, but easily over-excitable and prone to heroics when it comes to defending his friends.  

He does end up punching a little bully. ("Hey four eyes," he had yelled, "Maybe you need better glasses, your skin still looks dir-" He didn’t get further than that.) Combeferre beams at him and gives him a peck on the lips in gratitude when words fail him. Courfeyrac does the same. One of the teachers sees the second kiss and sends them to the principal’s office. As they wait for Courfeyrac’s mother to arrive to hear what her son has done they hold hands. Enjolras protested when the teacher wouldn’t send him along with them, and instead claimed he would write a letter to the school board.

(Enjolras learned to write a year ago. His father taught him to write by having him trace the letters on his mother’s grave on their daily visits to talk with her and bring her flowers. "Like Mary Shelley," Enjolras, who by all accounts scares easily but loves it when his father reads him horror fiction because it gives him a chance to confront his fears without actually having to touch something scary, had said proudly.)

"Why did you kiss Henri, Felix?" The principal frowns at them. (It doesn’t occur to them until years later that perhaps this really should not have been the school’s priority. But this is provincial France and despite the influx of immigrants coming from the Maghreb in recent decades, they tend to concentrate in Paris, Marseille and similar cities. Exposure to different cultures isn’t all that common here. Combeferre’s family is something of a rarity around these parts. Even Courfeyrac passes perfectly as what ignorant people refer to as ‘Just-French’ despite his very tan skin, inherited from his mother’s Venezuelan roots.)

"Because my Mamí says that when someone is important to you, you kiss them."

The frown on the grown man’s face deepens.

"You can’t go around kissing boys, Felix," he chastises.

"I kissed him first." Combeferre protests the accusation. "And I kiss him _all the time_ too, look," he exclaims, pecking Courfeyrac on the mouth with staggering casualness. They giggle for a while until they see the stony expression on the principal’s face.

In the end their mothers fight for their right to stay at that school. Both women look exhausted by their sons’ inability to stay apart for long, even if they are touched by the close friendship.

When Enjolras hears he waddles to the principal’s office in righteous anger and yells, with all the dignity and gravitas a barely six year old can manage: "What you are doing is _ho-pho-mobic_!" His father, one of the most renowned prosecutors from the Auvergne to Valence, steps in and – by the sheer force of his intimidating presence apparently – causes the principal to forget all about the incident, on the condition that it is not repeated. ("Think of the other children," the principal had sneered, "They don’t need to see _that_ kind of thing. What will they learn?")

Their parents sit Combeferre and Courfeyrac down on the blue couch in the blue-themed Courfeyrac household and tell them that they can’t kiss in school.

"Why not?" Combeferre frowns. "Louis kisses all the girls on the playground even when they don’t want him to."

"He is trying to give them cooties," Courfeyrac agrees, managing an astounding level of disgust to show on his face, "That’s not very nice. Why can’t I kiss Ferre when we both like it?"

"Because it isn’t something you do in school." It is said with an air of finality, the tone adults employ when they know it is something beyond their comprehension. Who wants to explain to their six year old kid the intricacies of quotidian homophobia? Combeferre and Courfeyrac say nothing, neither is happy with that answer.

In the end they agree to instead hold hands at all times possible. The principal notices, but doesn’t do anything but glare. The threat Enjolras’ father presents is too immediate. Enjolras smiles when he realizes how much good his father can do when he applies himself to it. He begins to see his father in a new light, one allowing for more potential. Combeferre and Courfeyrac thank him by keeping him far away from the bugs they dig up whenever the mood overtakes Combeferre. Combeferre makes sketches of them instead and Courfeyrac colors them, and they present their findings to him in this manner. Once though, Courfeyrac finds bones, and that doesn’t seem to disgust Enjolras at all. Instead, he stares at them, fascinated, and makes up a story on the spot about how they must have gotten there. They pass a whole afternoon in the tree house behind numéro 15 as Enjolras tells them the story of a rebellious group of people who rose up to battle an evil king. Enjolras has a talent for speaking, and his stories become a regular thing in the treehouse.

Courfeyrac remembers thinking that he doesn’t want this to ever change. Combeferre agrees. Enjolras silently wishes to find someone that understands him the way Combeferre and Courfeyrac do each other. Then he dismisses that thought just as quickly. He doesn’t need anyone else. He is fine by himself, in the end. He just needs his books and his mind and the opportunity to _do_ _something_. He isn’t sure he will be afforded that in their little provincial town.

+

 

"Hey, so, question, do you masturbate?" Courfeyrac asks him when they are fifteen, one lazy summer day when they’re lying in Combeferre’s bed together. Combeferre is busy reading (It is a book that was written centuries ago, thicker than a brick, and in _English_ , what the fuck?)

"Sure," Combeferre flicks a page, yawning, "When the need arises. How are you getting along with memorizing your lines?"

Courfeyrac is participating in the musical theater program their community offers over the summer. He’s playing Mr. Mistoffelees.

"Not too shabby, mon ami," Courf stretches, his head resting comfortably in Combeferre’s lap. He needs to put some more effort into his vocal range, but he isn’t seriously considering becoming an actor or musical theater major anymore, Combeferre knows. The erstwhile dream of going into space has been abandoned too, when Courfeyrac realized there would be no way for Combeferre or Enjolras to come with him unless they took the same path. Now, he doesn’t know what he wants to do after school. "I’ll figure something out," he always dismisses. Combeferre does not pry. Courfeyrac will tell him when he figures it out, there is no doubting it.

"Why do you ask?"

"Have you ever wanted to finger yourself while you do it?" Courf asks. Boundaries don’t exist between them. If they could they would create a hive mind between the two of them. Enjolras squeaks, startled from the bean bag in which he is reading a book equally large and old. "Charming, you guys, really. I’ll be downstairs, text me once this part of conversation is over."

Combeferre sighs when Enjolras stalks out of the room and then sets his book down, carding his hand through an anxious looking Courf’s hair. (Recently Enjolras has been isolating himself with increasing frequency, and they have to do something about it, but he isn’t sure Courfeyrac has noticed as much, which is a ridiculous notion to entertain because Courfeyrac is much better than him at picking up on social cues. But he hasn’t said anything. He doesn’t know how to bring the topic up without compromising on their closeness, and he doesn’t want that. He needs this level of intimacy with Courfeyrac. He needs to feel like part of him resides in his best friend.)

"Can’t say I have. Have you?"

"Kind of," Courfeyrac admits, "But like, what if there’s shit on my fingers afterwards? That’s gross and stuff."

Combeferre considers this for a while. His glasses threaten to slide off so Courfeyrac pushes them back up without saying a word. This is how they work.

"Honestly I don’t think the body stores its excrements in the anal cavity, that’s more like a passageway. Should be good, and even if it isn’t, you can just wash your hands afterwards, can’t you? As long as you have no open wounds on your fingers. Or use a condom on your hand?"

"I guess," Courfeyrac considers this.

Downstairs, they find Enjolras avidly discussing the environmental ramifications of the meat industry with Combeferre’s mother, who nods along, floored by the verbosity of this fifteen year old in front of her.

"I made vegetable biriyani," she announces simply, when she spots them, and then continues talking to Enjolras. Combeferre doesn’t quite have the heart to tell Enjolras he is preaching to the converted. Enjolras knows no one in the Combeferre household eats meat, but seeing him riled up and full of passion like this is something new and instead, Combeferre thinks they should nurture this still-growing rhetorical awakening. A few weeks later, Courfeyrac agrees to stop eating meat, once Enjolras sits him down and shows him horrifying slaughterhouse industry videos that bring tears to his eyes.

Combeferre is almost sorry to see it, he thinks it could have been done while sparing his best friend the pain of having to see so many creatures suffer. All this raw passion needs to be shaped, somehow. Maybe he can do that. Maybe this is how he and Enjolras will fit together now.

+

Courfeyrac calls Combeferre a night later, with mixed results. "Hey, so, I have some good news." A deep intake of breath, then a rapid exhale to say: "There was no shit."

It’s a piece of evidence towards their newest theory that they actually do have a hive mind that Combeferre immediately knows what he is talking about.

"But?" He prompts. Then he smiles. That could have been a pun. Maybe not one worthy of a pat on the back, but a pun nonetheless.

"It isn’t all smooth sailing, my friend. I used spit but that felt weird and only made it easy for one finger to go in, but that just feels more intrusive than pleasurable, ya feel?"

"Have you considered lube?" Combeferre asks, stumbling to his laptop and beginning research to help his friend.

"Do they sell lube to fifteen year olds?"

"Good question," Combeferre hums. "If the age of consent is fifteen they have to sell it to you, don’t they?"

"Can you come with me to pick it out?"

"Of course."

(Several hours of research later, Combeferre has seen quite a bit advertised on the internet and briefly wonders if he should learn more about computers in order to hide what now appears to be a very morally questionable search history. His mother is very open about everything, but in the true nature of a fifteen-year old, this feels too private to share. Especially considering this is about Courfeyrac, who, despite what they may present to the outside world, is a different person all of his own. His secrets are not Combeferre’s to share.)

After that Courfeyrac reports ‘smooth sailing’ and Combeferre is satisfied that he could be helpful.

+

They’re sixteen and at a party of one of their classmates, people are playing spin the bottle and Enjolras is engaged in heated debate about why the concept of masculinity is a prison with one of the field hockey players, who insists that it makes him feel comfortable to have a set of expectations to fall back on, while others are engaging in a different kind of hockey - "Tonsil!" Courfeyrac exclaims – altogether. Enjolras’ debate partner looks simultaneously intrigued and exhausted. Combeferre watches the hockey player – Jacques, Courfeyrac tells him when he can’t recall the name for the life of him, because Courfeyrac is definitely the kind of person who knows the name of everyone in their year and can also tell you quite a bit about their lives – observe Enjolras’ full, pouty pink lips sporadically. The intention is plain, but he doesn’t think Enjolras has picked up on it, and if he did, he doesn’t seem to be receptive. He just keeps talking.

(And even if he did pick up on it, Combeferre isn’t sure he would go for it. Enjolras, beautiful, stunning, wonderful Enjolras turns his nose up at romantic pursuits. "What is the use," he will frown, "Going for someone whom I know to be incompatible to me? Only someone who shares my convictions completely could persuade me into wasting time on relationships. And the only people I know who share my ideals are you and Courf, and unless the two of you are suddenly interested in pulling me into the darkest parts of your hive mind – which I’m not convinced I am interested in being pulled into – I will remain alone." "Well," Courfeyrac will chirp, "Either that or you convince someone to adopt your ideals. I can’t imagine you running into any problems regarding that." Enjolras, because he is Enjolras, takes that as a challenge and soon finds out that he really does have an easy time convincing people, at least for as long as they are looking at him.)

Courfeyrac has his legs over Combeferre’s lap and they are cuddling, the illicit thrill of underage drinking shooting fire through their veins. (Enjolras, on the other hand, is stone cold sober. "If I am going to have a record, Ferre, it’ll be for saving the world, not for underage drinking.")

Courfeyrac is humming something against the skin of his neck and Combeferre is massaging his scalp tenderly, albeit distractedly, because, "Marie keeps staring at me weirdly tonight, do you think she’d have me?"

"Well, I mean, sure," Courfeyrac yawns, "But can you wait to seduce her until I’ve found a way to get home without you?"

"Don’t be crude, Courf, you’re staying over. I wasn’t going to do her at this party. I meant like asking her out."

Despite his awkwardness when it comes to playing the game of love, Combeferre does consider himself to be one of the more romantic participants. When he thinks about relationships, his mind drifts to kisses, shared casually and just for the sake of kissing. He thinks about waking up together and thinks about laughing together, thinks about unconditional trust, thinks about fighting together for what they believe in. Sure, he thinks about sex too. He is sixteen, after all. But that seems to take a backseat, in the grand scale of things. More than anything else, he wants his future partner to _understand_ him. 

"One way to find out," another yawn, then Courfeyrac opens his eyes and motions for Marie to come over, which she does while giggling, pulling a hesitant friend that looks like she does not really want to be here with her.

"Having a good time?" Courf grins at her, charming as always. Marie agrees fervently, and after the minimal required amount of small talk he gets right to it.

"Hey, so, you’ve been eyeing Ferre, right? Do you want to make out with him?"

There have been rumors of them dating, over the years, obviously. They’ve cleared them up pretty thoroughly, but it isn’t as though they would be ashamed of one another. He remembers saying to the idiots that thought they could tease them in the locker room that, " _Courfeyrac is a wonderful guy and by saying that he would date me you’re really just giving me a compliment of the highest order. But it isn’t like that_." The idiot had been stunned into silence for a while, and the rumors might not have been put out completely after that, but eventually they faded away and instead rumors of Courfeyrac’s exploits take their place. (It is from Courfeyrac instead of the internet that Combeferre gets his first glimpses of porn, in that Courfeyrac vividly recounts his escapades. Far fewer instances than the general populace of their high school would have you believe, and far less scandalous to boot. But still, they rouse interest in Combeferre, he will not deny it. He says as much to Courfeyrac, who shrugs and says that if Combeferre thinks he might like to try it with a guy at some point, he should.)

Marie knows that they’re friends and that their friendship isn’t threatening to outside parties interested in either of them. She blushes anyway. Courf grins, pats Combeferre’s cheek and gets up to join Enjolras in his debate. The field hockey player looks put out only until Courfeyrac turns his most charming smile on him. Then the intrigue is back and Combeferre almost laughs.

When Courfeyrac glances over after the field hockey player has left - "I’ll text you man, we should hang." - he sees Combeferre with his eyes closed, responding eagerly to the way that Marie is pressing against him. Enjolras gives him a skeptical look but Courfeyrac looks at his friend with something like pride.

"That doesn’t bother you at all?" Enjolras wonders, crossing his arms. Courfeyrac furrows his brow. "What kind of a friend would I be if I wouldn’t want him to succeed?"

Enjolras says nothing, but his weary sigh is a lecture all in itself. One that Courfeyrac has attended often. One day, he thinks, when Enjolras gets his head out of his ass and understands that casual intimacy is a thing for people that aren’t him, the lectures might cease. Of course he would never shame Courfeyrac for having sex; he just likes to frown at Courfeyrac for being so open about it at times he deems inappropriate. He maintains that he does not want to hear about it, but while Combeferre prefers to guide Enjolras gently and encouragingly, Courfeyrac does not mind pushing Enjolras rather roughly in a certain direction when he thinks he needs it. In this case, that direction is the acceptance that not everyone can or even wants to live up to the ascetic standards he sets for himself. One day, someone else will come along who is much better than Courfeyrac at pushing Enjolras’ buttons, but also less discriminate about which buttons to push or when to push them. It will be his work that finally gets Enjolras out of his shell. But until then, Courfeyrac is a lonely pioneer in the study of challenging Enjolras. Most of the time he is right to push, and Enjolras will thank him for it begrudgingly, and that is pretty much worth the few times his intuition misfires and leaves him at the receiving end of Enjolras’ righteous anger. It never lasts too long, not with Combeferre always ready to guide him back towards Courfeyrac and the quest for reconciliation.

They are in bed together later, both dressed down to their boxers because the feeling of skin-on-skin is just nice and Courfeyrac loves it when Combeferre plays with his hair. Courfeyrac, in turn, is fascinated with running his hand over the skin on Combeferre’s chest, beginning to be covered in hair. He really likes Combeferre’s body, hair and all.

"Marie wants to go out with me," Combeferre tells him, content. Courfeyrac grins into Combeferre’s skin. He could have told him as much after that first kiss.

"Your first girlfriend, hm? Are you excited? Are you going to get laid?"

They giggle for a while as they burrow closer to one another.

"Jacques wants to hook up. Not sure that’s a good idea though, seeing as he’s got a girlfriend and everything. Nadia seems like too nice a girl to put up with his bullshit."

"Then we’ve just got to find you someone available and worth your time."

"Know many gay guys in our town, hm?" Courfeyrac dismisses, amused.

Combeferre sighs.

"You said you’re bi, you might very well go for a woman."

"I will, when one of them catches my eye," Courfeyrac grins, pulling Combeferre’s glasses off and setting them on the nightstand, "Can’t see how any of them would ever hold me as nicely as you do though. It would have to be someone who works out, strong arms take dedication."

"Then I suppose you’ll have to keep me around to get your cuddle fix. Dreadful." Combeferre deadpans.

"The sacrifices I make," Courfeyrac wails dramatically, until they dissolve into giggles.

It doesn’t take long for Combeferre to get the girlfriend he wanted, nor does it take long after that for Courfeyrac to follow suit. Marie brings her friend Sarah along for one of their bowling dates and because Courfeyrac is the world’s most charming person already at sixteen, they end up making out on her doorstep when he walks her home.

He dips into Combeferre’s room with the key he got years ago and smiles when Combeferre does not even bother saying anything, instead lifting the cover up to indicate he wants company.

They sleep best curled up in one another.

("Honestly though," Enjolras had said once, "I don’t get the whole cuddling while sleeping thing. I mean, your skin overheats and it gets all warm and sticky and why are you guys laughing at me?")

What follows are a few months of double dates that are probably as fun for Courfeyrac and Combeferre as they are for their respective girlfriends, since the two of them are best friends as well. Enjolras joins these dates sometimes, whenever someone gathers the courage to ask out the _golden scepter_ , as he is nicknamed around school. Because of his upstanding morals and untouchable worth, Courfeyrac winks when Enjolras frowns. None of these _enjoldates_ , dubbed thus by Courfeyrac in a phase of linguistic inspiration, ever lead to anything more. Either Enjolras scares them off or he breaks it off. He isn’t interested and no one really believes him.

(He admits to Courfeyrac and Combeferre eventually, at a sleepover in the old treehouse, that he is interested, but he wants to be interested in the person before he goes out with them. He doesn’t want to date for the sake of dating and then be disappointed when nothing develops the way he needs it to. Much like Combeferre, what he wants most is to be understood.)

Once, Combeferre and Marie get into an argument he refuses to let escalate, when she calls him out on the sheer physical intimacy he bestows on Courfeyrac. ("You kiss Sarah when you see her, you cuddle with her all the time and that is fine, you tell her she is the most beautiful person in the entire world, but when I hug Courf or hold his hand sometimes you have something to say about it? To me that reeks heavily of double standards and I honestly did not expect that from you." Marie looks sheepish, chastised by the calmness of Combeferre’s tone. He does not raise his voice, not even in anger, and she concedes eventually that the base of these accusations is insecurity on her part. Combeferre guides her towards understanding her emotions with great care. He combe _cares_ , Courfeyrac will chortle at some point after hearing this story recounted. "He’s bisexual, I’m sorry, I just can’t see how he wouldn’t be attracted to you. It eats away at me sometimes even when I know it shouldn’t." "That’s all well and good, Marie, but as far as I’m concerned he’s dating _your best friend_ , isn’t he, not his own?")

Marie moves away at the end of the school year and Sarah breaks up with Courfeyrac for someone else who, quote unquote, _wouldn’t show more affection for his best friend than his girlfriend_. Courfeyrac is pretty bummed out for a few weeks and Combeferre’s bed once more becomes a solace. He didn’t have the conversation with Sarah about double standards in favor of avoiding a fight, but afterwards he thinks that maybe he should have.

Combeferre’s arms are even stronger now, he fences and goes to the gym regularly to balance his studies and when Courfeyrac is in them everything else just fades away. The soft kisses Combeferre presses onto his head and cheek and forehead and brow make him feel warm and fuzzy and like heartbreak might not actually be the end of the world as long as he has Combeferre.

Enjolras, in an unprompted bid towards truly compassionate empathy, slides a book of mandalas across the cafeteria desk the next day. The sticky note on top of the book, stating ‘get better - E’ like a command in bright red, ends up on Courfeyrac’s bedroom hall of fame. The hall of fame is a corkboard on which he pins memorabilia of his happiest moments when sadness sometimes threatens to immobilize him for days. It replaces some of the pictures of Sarah and him.

Courfeyrac and Enjolras end up talking for half a day about the lost relationship while Combeferre accompanies his mother to Paris for a few days, and both boys emerge from that day with a renewed understanding of one another.

+

They graduate high school, and all three of them get accepted into a University in Paris, so they set about organizing dorm rooms.

Courfeyrac and Combeferre end up in a double, and Enjolras ends up with a guy that catches onto the Last-Name-Thing quickly and proceeds to introduce himself as Bahorel. (Pretty quickly they learn that Bahorel is at least twenty-four and that he has taken all the quotes about being a lifelong student a bit too literally. It takes them three months to learn his first name, which turns out to be Jean-Baptiste-Christophe, and yeah, they’ll stick with Bahorel, thank you very much. It isn’t easy to look at a guy the size of an entire fucking wardrobe and think ‘ah, yes, there goes Jean-Baptiste-Christophe.’) They get along well enough but all three of them are determined to look for an apartment they can afford together.

The first night in their dorm, Courfeyrac sighs heavily at the two separate beds. "Can we just sleep together?"

Combeferre exhales and feels the tension leave him, already beginning to push the beds together. "Thank god you offered. Get in."

Combeferre and Courfeyrac begin waking each other up with kisses, on the cheek, on the neck, on the shoulder, on the chest, wherever their lips can get to first thing. Combeferre is on his path to a medical degree and Courfeyrac is trying law. He isn’t dead-set on it, but he thinks he likes it well enough. Enjolras’ father approves and insinuates that he would be more than willing to be used as a reference for future internships and what not.  Enjolras is on a Poli-Sci track, against his father’s direct wishes but well within the realm of acceptable choices. Life is good.

+

Combeferre’s workload during the first semester becomes a bit too much, so he decides to pick up fencing again as a way to cope. ( _Nine hundred medical students in my semester_ , he thinks, _nine hundred, and only 135 spots to snag up in the second year_. _I need this outlet_.) Bahorel declares his logic faulty, that finding more things to do is counterproductive to abandoning stress, and he laughs boomingly when Combeferre asks if instead he should just fail out of everything. He regrets those words immediately afterwards and feels bad when he realizes that a small part of him judges Bahorel for his _laissez-faire_ approach to his future, but Bahorel seems to agree with him. "I know I’m not doing anything worthwhile, trust me. Not like you are. And that’s fine, yeah? _Each according to his own ability,_ and all that. I’m just happy to be along for life’s wild ride."

That is how the conversation derails into communism and Enjolras discovers hidden depths in his roommate that bring them closer together. Once Enjolras has proof that your heart is in the right place, he will let you into his own.

Grantaire introduces himself as such the first time he swings by the gym that offers fencing, and they train together very well. Odd how nobody questions the instinctual Last-Name-Thing, instead they always offer their last name back. Well, that isn’t true. Most people he meets offer their first name anyway, but those he ends up truly hitting it off with reply with their last name. Back in their small town Combeferre easily surpassed the others in skill, but Grantaire is a league of his own and it makes his ambition to do better flare up. He likes being challenged both physically and intellectually.

Afterwards they get coffee together before going their separate ways – Combeferre to the library to study with renewed vigor, and Grantaire to his late shift at a bar. ("It’s called the Corinth, you should stop by soon." "I do love me some Peloponnesian inspired watering holes." "Great. Swing by then.")

"Oh, do you like him?" Courfeyrac teases him, flopped on top of his chest after an exhausting day of ‘pseudo-lawyering’, as he calls it.

"I told you, Courf, I’m not sure I’m even into guys."

Because sure, touching Courfeyrac, holding him, kissing every part of him except his lips – they never kiss each other on the lips anymore these days, that makes dating other people too hard, which is bizarre, considering a kiss on the neck is no less intimate. Arguably, Combeferre would say it doesn’t matter where a kiss is placed unless you consider the intent behind it, but to most prospective partners, the mouth holds a special sanctity, apparently, and he is nothing if not considerate – it all feels nice, but when Combeferre thinks about having sex with men in general it doesn’t invoke too much interest.

"Is he?"

"It didn’t come up," Combeferre shrugs, although he is pretty certain that he saw rainbow boxers peeking out from beneath Grantaire’s jeans after they got out of the changing rooms.

"Well, I want to meet him."

They don’t really get around to it, that first year of Uni. Taking the time to fence twice a week is taxing enough for poor Combeferre. He and Grantaire start a game of trying to guess his first name. For the most part he fails miserably, but it does make both of them laugh. ("What do you mean I look like a Francois? I am offended, my friend! Offended, I tell you! What with the current president, and all. For shame, Henri, for shame!")

+

After the first year they find a place, the three of them. Bahorel is pleasant about it and finally musters up the courage to move in with his mysterious significant other. They know that person exists – the evidence at Bahorel’s new place strongly points to him sharing it with someone, but whenever they come by, which is a rarity in itself considering the sheer awesomeness of their new apartment, the significant other is mysteriously out and about. 

"I mean, do we really need a third bedroom when we could turn it into an office? It’s not like you guys have slept a bed apart for a single night since we started Uni," Enjolras argues when they make plans for the apartment after signing the lease. 

"I can’t believe that’s true," Combeferre shakes his head, "We’ve both had at least a few hook-ups. Courfeyrac dated that guy Toussaint for at least two months, closer to three."

It didn’t last in the end, but Combeferre thought Toussaint was rather pleasant, and not just because he had the common decency to use his last name during introductions. He was an intelligent fellow, a very good conversationalist and he excelled at making vegan pancakes. Thankfully, he also had the decency to pass both the skill and recipe onto Courfeyrac before ending things between them. It was a pleasant split. After Sarah, all of Courfeyrac’s exes have departed with fond memories of Courfeyrac, because Courfeyrac is good with people in a way nobody can ever hope to emulate. On the contrary, Combeferre only keeps in contact with Marie out of all his missed connections. They write twice a year on their respective birthdays to catch up, and that is all he can muster. He has a small group of people he needs to talk to. Everyone else is just a sort of bonus he indulges in occasionally. Courfeyrac delights in having a million people to talk to, he jokes that it keeps him too busy to sink into bouts of depression.

Courfeyrac agrees, thoughtfully. "Definitely. And what if Combeferre meets someone and wants to bring them here, Enjolras? Say, his fencing partner? That would be impractical."

"Exactly," Combeferre agrees, shaking his head at their blonde friend, staring at them incredulously. "And what about when Courfeyrac charms the pants off of another boy, hm, Enjolras? Am I supposed to take the couch? We’re having separate bedrooms."

The third bedroom, after much negotiation and absolute exasperation on Enjolras’ part, becomes nothing more than a façade. They have a stowaway bed that can be turned into a couch, but essentially all their stuff is in what is officially designated as ‘Combeferre’s room’.

(The couch is, in that first year of living together as a trio, used as a bed precisely five times. Three times by Courfeyrac bringing someone home, two times by Combeferre bringing someone home. Enjolras glowers at whoever brings someone home and proceeds to ask the other party if they are okay. The response never varies, he always receives a genuinely confused ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’)

Even their libraries have merged, although Combeferre, in his studious manner, has penciled his name into all of his copies. Sometimes Courfeyrac puts little sticky notes in the books his best friend is reading, adorned with smiley faces or encouraging words. It turns into a room filled with a fascinating amalgamation of genres. Courfeyrac enjoys crime fiction. Combeferre enjoys classic literature. Courfeyrac really enjoys historical biographies when they aren’t written too densely. (Chernow, Weir, Jurewitz-Freischmidt and the like.) Combeferre enjoys romance novels, although those are relegated to the lowest shelves and sometimes, in particularly embarrassing cases, hidden behind framed photographs of the three of them.

Enjolras has so many books that he keeps his more ‘relatable’ books, i.e. those he reads to distract himself occasionally, in the living room, and the shelves in his bedroom are overflowing with books on political and economic theory. A few classics here and there, but mostly a collection of essays in a vast array of topics that would make any librarian weep with joy. His father groomed him early, in this regard. 

Bahorel comes over frequently because he and Enjolras are actually great friends after living together for a whole year despite Enjolras’ inability to process human social cues without at least a twenty minute delay (he is working on it, _okay_?), and witnesses what is quintessentially ‘C-squared’, as Enjolras has taken to calling them whenever he gets particularly sentimental. It does happen, contrary to popular belief. Enjolras is currently at Uni, but Bahorel is friends enough with all three of them that he can spend time in any constellation with the trio.

Combeferre is seducing the coffeemaker, whispering encouraging words to it even though he knows it is almost on its last legs, when Courfeyrac comes up behind him and wraps his arms around him, wearing only pink boxer briefs. Bahorel - not the type to freak out over any form of affection - smiles when he sees it.

"Combeferre, my dearest, my darling, my life?" Courfeyrac kisses Combeferre’s shoulder, leading to a content but questioning hum from the receiver of said affection. "Did you eat the leftover vegan Moussaka I specifically labeled and saved for today?"

"Last night," Combeferre answers, lost in thought.

Courfeyrac makes a pained noise and pushes himself away as if burned. "Fucker."

He stomps into their room and shuts the door perhaps a little louder than necessary. Combeferre, glasses slightly askew, bearing smudged fingerprints all over the lenses and with his hair sticking out all over the place, the poster child for overworked university student, blinks in confusion.

"Boyfriends, man. Am I right?" Bahorel snorts.

Combeferre looks thoughtful for a moment. "We’re not together," he says, beginning to dial the Greek place Courfeyrac loves and ordering Moussaka. "Want anything?"

Bahorel tactfully waits until Combeferre has ended his call before raising his eyebrows in complete and utter disbelief.

"You expect me to believe that the tenderness with which he manhandled you just now is in no way supposed to be romantic?"

Combeferre shrugs. "We’ve always been like that."

"Fair enough."

Still, it gets Combeferre thinking.

+

Combeferre brings the Moussaka into their room and Courfeyrac beams at him so brightly that he feels like he could do anything.

"I take back what I said - you are a prince among men."

"Oh?" Combeferre laughs, sitting down on the bed with him. "So Bahorel thought we were together. Add him to the list."

Courfeyrac grins through a mouthful of food and then speaks before swallowing, one of his nastier habits and one of the rare things about him that make Combeferre cringe. "It’s like they’ve never had a friend in their life, honestly."

And with words like that, does it really matter if the boy speaks with his mouth full?

+

Combeferre spends the first two or three hours of Grantaire’s Friday night shift with him at the bar, always. It is a sort of tradition by now, many weeks into his third semester. Combeferre will sit and sip one ( _Just_ one, mind!) of whatever new drink Grantaire has come up with for the week as he pours over medical texts, and intermittently they discuss whatever is currently relevant, ranging from his opinion on the drink of the week to current events to their friends. Grantaire knows Bahorel, it turns out, and apparently they box together.

"Is there anything you don’t do?" Combeferre teases once, at which Grantaire laughs. Never one to preen and instead prone to dismissing any compliments, a genuine laugh is a step forward in the direction Combeferre wants to guide him. Self-acceptance is his ultimate goal here, but he thinks that will take some time yet.

"Such is the life of a struggling artist out of university; commissions and bartending, leaving me free to waste the rest of my time away as I see fit."

He likes his friendship with Grantaire. It is refreshingly apolitical. Combeferre can’t say that he agrees with his skepticism – he has firm morals and principles and what not, but Enjolras is quite militant in his views and it can sometimes be taxing. When Enjolras doesn’t talk politics he tries to talk about Courfeyrac and him, and there’s nothing to talk about, whatever the blond angel of social justice might think.

+

Combeferre is asked out by a guy named Maurice after he bests him at a fencing tournament and Courfeyrac spends the entire day bouncing around after Combeferre tells him. "Are you going to _do it_? Your homosexual awakening? Are you going to combe _spear_ him with your dick? Can I witness?"

"I think he might have a problem with that," Combeferre grins as Courfeyrac leaps into his arms for maximum cuddles.

The whole relationship does not last longer than a month. Maurice breaks up with him after meeting Courfeyrac for the first time. (‘ _I don’t know what to tell you, Henri, but it’s pretty obvious to me that anyone else would come second to him, and I’m not sure I could handle that_.’)

"Did you get to fuck him though?" Courfeyrac whispers into his chest, grinning when Combeferre makes a vaguely annoyed sound. Not because he thinks the question is inappropriate, but because he expressed a desire to sleep over ten minutes ago and was close to getting there. "That’s not an answer, darling."

"I did."

"Was it good?"

"It was alright."

(Enjolras, tenacious as ever, once more breaches the Courfeyrac subject. "We both know you didn’t want that relationship with Maurice to last anyway." And Combeferre is confused. He liked Maurice very much. He wouldn’t have minded spending more time with him.)

+

He is at the Corinth again, this time trying a mixture of dubious spirits that looks too bright green to not be artificial. "Couldn’t help but notice you were reading about fluorescent tracers, thought I’d try my hand," Grantaire teases. Combeferre raises a careful eyebrow. "Not radioactive though, I hope."

"Can’t promise anything, man," Grantaire sighs, world-weary mask firmly in place, "Some of the stuff in there is pretty intense."

"I hope you know first aid," he chuckles and then takes a sip. The face he makes results in raucous laughter from the artist. "Not good?" Grantaire wonders, already motioning to take the drink away.

"Intense. You want to try it?"

"Oh no, I never sample my own creations at work," Grantaire shakes his head, eyes clouded by something darker, something unusual. "Slippery slope, you know?" The mood lightens again.

Then Enjolras appears in the doorway, spots Combeferre sitting at the bar and marches over to him determinedly.

"Help me, Ferre," Enjolras demands, ignoring the way Grantaire’s breath catches in his throat. He is too deep in the tunnel of whatever project his mind has gotten into, nothing but the path towards it is visible in his mind. Combeferre, readying himself for a rant of epic proportions while simultaneously aware that he has many pages left to get through tonight, pushes the green abomination towards Enjolras. It says something about his mindset that Enjolras doesn’t hesitate before he knocks it back. (Enjolras drinks for stress-relief, occasionally, when it really gets to be too much. Yes, he is aware that alcohol is not a good way to cope, no, he won’t stop as long as it doesn’t spiral into something more. "That’s what you two are for, aren’t you? To stop me from taking it too far?" Courfeyrac agrees immediately, impish smile in place and obviously delighting in this newfound task.)

"That’s good," he praises distractedly, eyeing the glass dubiously. Combeferre and Grantaire look at each other at the same time.

"You didn’t tell me you were friends with _Rage Of The People_ personified," Grantaire laughs, turning around to refill someone else’s drink. Enjolras snaps out of it when he hears Grantaire’s voice. He looks up and stares.

"This is Enjolras," Combeferre introduces when Grantaire circles back to them. Grantaire nods, one corner of his mouth quirking upwards. "How about another drink for you, _Enjolras_?"

Admittedly, the way Grantaire rolls his best friend’s name off his tongue is borderline obscene, and Combeferre bears witness to possibly the first time that Enjolras has felt spontaneous attraction. Interesting. He wonders what Courfeyrac will make of this development. In all likelihood he will count it as an immeasurable success in his quest to helping Enjolras find ‘his true self, Ferre. It is buried beneath the causes he so valiantly fights for.’

"And who are you?" Enjolras asks, straight to the point.

"The bartender," Grantaire teases, tongue sticking out between his teeth as he throws a flirty smile at Enjolras.

"Yes," Enjolras nods, "I see that." Flirting has not gotten easier for him, but he cannot hide his interest from Combeferre’s trained eye. "What is your name?"

"Oh, honey, that is something you have to earn with time and dedication." Grantaire leans across the bar and Combeferre can’t wait to tell Courfeyrac about the way Enjolras takes a deep, slightly shocked breath.

(It all works out very nicely. Grantaire distracts Enjolras enough for Combeferre to actually get done with his work for the night. He has never met anyone capable of keeping up when Enjolras works himself up into a storm of indignation and outrage, much less so while arguing as the opposition. He shouldn’t be surprised, because he already knows Grantaire to be one of the smartest people he has ever met. By the end of the night Enjolras is infuriated by Grantaire’s stubbornness, and Grantaire, very cleverly, Combeferre has to admit, holds off on giving him his name as an incentive for further patronage. "For now," he winks, "I guess you’ll just have to come back." Enjolras rants about him the entire way home, but he comes with him the Friday afterwards, armed with more arguments for Grantaire to pick apart. The week after that he actually brings source material. Grantaire laughs incredulously when he sees it and pours both of them a drink.)

Courfeyrac laughs himself hoarse when he recounts it.

"He’s just so infuriating," Enjolras will blurt out at any given time, and Courfeyrac will snort, rest his chin on his hand invitingly, and then proceed to try and avoid laughing for the rest of the conversation. Acting practice, he calls it. ‘A good poker face is essential, Ferre, what do you mean?’

("It’s so obvious he likes Grantaire, _god_ ," Courfeyrac yawns into Combeferre’s chest, nearly purring beneath Combeferre’s ministrations of his hair. Combeferre wonders if it is only obvious because Enjolras is yet unaware of his own feelings. Anybody who knows how they feel is better at hiding it. He would know, he supposes.)

+

Courfeyrac breaks his hand while out partying during the fourth semester in Paris. It doesn’t take long for Combeferre to notice the increase in tension.

"Tell me." He simply orders one night, intently massaging Courfeyrac’s temples. Courfeyrac whimpers when he does and cuddles closer.

"If we truly had a hive mind, you would know," Courf protests. Combeferre narrows his eyes and tries to focus. "We’ve been slacking off on that theory. I need you to tell me and tomorrow we’re practicing our mental communication."

"Can’t masturbate with the cast on," Courfeyrac explains and Combeferre makes a sympathetic noise in the back of his throat. Ah, the struggles of hormonal young men. He certainly is no stranger to that. Briefly he wants to ask Courfeyrac how often he thinks Enjolras masturbates, because he has never really given them a straight answer and curiosity is Combeferre’s inevitable downfall, but he pushes those thoughts away in favor of concentrating on Courfeyrac, still on top of him.

"Do you want me to help?"

Courfeyrac nods against him but doesn’t make a move to get up off of him. "Show me what you learned from Maurice," he teases.

He begins by trailing his hand down to Courf’s briefs, kneading the flesh of his ass thoughtfully, cataloguing the reactions he gets. This way it can almost be considered scientific inquiry when he slips his fingers beneath the fabric to continue his quest. Courfeyrac hums contentedly and mouths at Combeferre’s chest, as they lazily begin rutting against one another. "Grip me harder," Courfeyrac whispers, no longer sleepy but keeping quiet because they can still hear Enjolras on the phone next door, arguing with someone they do not even need to be told is probably Grantaire.

(The name jig is up, though not by Grantaire’s volition, but rather because Enjolras apparently ran into him while out with Bahorel, and Bahorel has the alarming tendency to yell out someone’s name very loudly while embracing them and clapping them on the back enthusiastically. Instead, Enjolras is now trying along with Combeferre to find out his first name. He does not share this with Grantaire by offering any guesses when Combeferre revives their old game, but he does philosophize with Combeferre about what it could be when he is sleepy after studying all day and rhapsodizing about the many aspects of Grantaire that utterly baffle or infuriate him.)

Combeferre does grab him harder then. Courfeyrac is a petit man and the globes of his ass fit into his broad hands very well. It feels great, he feels great. Combeferre’s mind grows a little hazy and his hips twitch upwards against Courfeyrac. He can’t help himself any longer. He doesn’t want to. This feels too good. His grip grows tighter and Courfeyrac stifles a moan against Combeferre’s neck.

"You feel really good, Ferre," Courfeyrac sighs into his ear, voicing his thoughts exactly. They both laugh. The mutual orgasm leaves them panting against one another, wrapped up completely tight and unwilling to let go.

Combeferre finally relents and gets them something to clean up.

+

Enjolras picks him up from the library while Courfeyrac is with his current conquest.

"I know you’ve told me that it doesn’t bother you," Enjolras sighs, tying up his hair in a messy bun, "But why doesn’t it bother you?"

Combeferre doesn’t have to think about it. This has been on his mind for a long time now.

"I guess-" Combeferre starts, staring out across the Seine as they stroll, "I know that in the end it will always be him and me, no matter who else might be in the picture. We’re never going to give each other up, and I trust in that."

"You’re in love with him," Enjolras points out, "So why not just tell him and solidify what you both want?"

Combeferre has a few choice words he could say about acting on love, but he swallows them down. By now he is fairly certain Enjolras’ heart has clued his brain into the fact that it behaves differently when Grantaire is around, but it hasn’t given him the epiphany Combeferre was hoping for. Instead it has made him occasionally cruel as he tries to keep his guard up all the more, unable to rationalize why Grantaire makes him feel so vulnerable and instead concluding that he is being attacked. Courfeyrac is more understanding than Combeferre. ("He’s never been in love before, how would he know?")

"Because if we get together now we are never breaking up, Enj. He is _it_ for me, he’s the end goal, the person I want to spend my entire life with. And we have the rest of our lives to do it. This is me giving him the freedom to explore what he wants before I tie him down to me."

"I can’t say I’d be strong enough to do that if I felt like that about someone."

"Do you?"

"No," Enjolras says, with an air of finality that sounds forced. "I don’t think anyone can feel what the two of you feel for each other."

Combeferre smiles. Perhaps, but don’t all those in love think no one can feel as they do? The wonderful thing about Courfeyrac is that Combeferre never, not even for a second, has to doubt if his feelings are reciprocated.

+

Combeferre turns twenty-one on a cold winter’s day. He wakes up to Courfeyrac’s wandering hands, trailing over his chest and back down his legs and up again. He wants to stay beneath the covers with him forever.

"Good morning," Courf murmurs sleepily, kissing his shoulder and going up to his neck. Combeferre stretches and settles into the touch, glad to notice it is a Saturday and he doesn’t have to get to Uni at all today.

"Anything you want to do today, birthday boy?" Courf asks, settling closer to him and speaking against his skin. It’s warm, it really is, but it is also perfect. The feeling of Courfeyrac’s lips has always been incredible. A comfort in childhood and excitement mixed in nowadays.

"Kind of want to have sex, if I’m honest. It’s been a while."

Courfeyrac doesn’t miss a beat before answering.

"Do you want to go out and find someone or will I do? Cause, to be honest I’m not too keen on leaving this bed."

"You want to have sex?" Combeferre says into the air, and he feels Courf shrug behind him.

"Sure. You down?"

"Yeah, alright," Combeferre agrees, and no sooner than that he feels Courfeyrac’s now cast-less hand slipping past his boxers.

"Good morning indeed," Courfeyrac chortles when he finds him already hard in anticipation.

"You’re a piece of shit sometimes, you know that?" Combeferre sighs at the feeling of Courfeyrac hardening behind him, rutting against him until they reach the edge together.

"I’m your _favorite_ piece of shit," Courfeyrac protests, nipping at his ear and laughing when Combeferre rolls his eyes. How anyone can have the confidence to take absolutely everything as a delightful compliment he will never know.

Enjolras waits for them in the kitchen with coffee and pancakes that are only slightly burned.

"When did you learn how to cook?" Courfeyrac wonders, digging in and moaning obscenely at the taste. Combeferre concedes that they don’t taste bad, by enjolrasian standards. They’ve known Enjolras all their lives - he is not a talented cook. He and his father relied on take-out when the maid couldn't make it. 

"Grantaire thought he should teach me to fend for myself," Enjolras responds primly, but fails at hiding the fondness in his eyes. _Still oblivious, our Enjolras,_ Courfeyrac’s eyes seem to convey. Combeferre smiles into his coffee.

+

They have an end of semester party. Combeferre invites his friend Joly from class and he brings his significant others and thus the Amis de l’ABC are born when they get on like a house on fire with Bahorel and the two friends he brought along. There is Feuilly, no longer just a student but once in the same semester as Bahorel when he started all those years ago and now a hard-working man with too little free time and then there is Prouvaire, the only one of them that prefers to be called by a nickname that has little to do with the family name. Combeferre likes Jehan despite of it, even if he is admittedly a little taken aback by their eccentric _everything_. Courfeyrac takes an immediate liking to them and takes to braiding their hair. "I used to braid Mamí’s hair all the time when I was small - oh, alright, Ferre, fine – small _er,_ it’ll be perfect, you’ll see."

Bahorel brings Grantaire along as well and Enjolras pretends not to stare when he breaks out a guitar and strums it at Joly’s request. He pulls his boyfriend, a rapidly balding man called L’Aigle, and his girlfriend, a woman named Musichetta who dropped her last name when her parents threw her out and thus wants nothing to with it, up and they attempt a dance as a trio that ends with L’Aigle falling and almost breaking his nose. Joly has Combeferre confirm that he probably just busted a small blood vessel and that is why he is bleeding – nothing serious at all.

Turns out, all of them feel some type of way about social justice. (In Grantaire’s case, this amounts to: "I feel like this might be a waste of time, but this is nice, so I’ll stay.")

They begin holding meetings regularly, they begin their activism. Grantaire scores them free reign of the upper floor of the Corinth twice a week and considers that the zenith of his contributions for the time being. The group takes off after half a year, and by then they’ve established a tight knit circle among their leadership.

+

Combeferre is sitting on their couch, reading something for his class while Enjolras is meeting with Bahorel and Grantaire to deliberate over which fliers they should choose to advertise their next protest. Jehan calls Enjolras, saying ‘Heads up, Courf thinks he tanked the exam’ 

His own phone is currently turned off and policy dictates that in such cases Enjolras is nearby and fielding the influx of messages, hence why Jehan contacted the blond. Grantaire voices his confusion at why Bahorel looks unbearably gleeful when Enjolras relays the message.

"Oh, my sweet R, you are about to bear witness to one of the weirdest aspect of this friendship I have ever come across in my life," Bahorel rubs his hands together in what Combeferre can only assume is supposed to be an imitation of a cartoon villain. He pointedly foregoes the eye-roll he craves. The door opens and Enjolras makes a sympathetic comment to a downtrodden looking Courfeyrac, who sniffles out his gratitude and then makes a beeline to the couch upon which Combeferre is perched. Combeferre lifts his textbook out of the way and Courf straddles him, burrowing into his arms and burying his face in Combeferre’s neck. Combeferre kisses his head, tenderly and intermittently as he keeps reading. Courfeyrac holds on tight and the deep breaths he takes are soothing for both of them.

"Weird, right?" Bahorel grins.

"Fuck off, I think it is adorable," R retorts. "A friendship close enough where you don’t even have to talk to know exactly what the other needs is beyond goals, isn’t it?"

(Grantaire was probably the only person they met that didn’t assume they were together the first time they saw Combeferre and Courfeyrac interact.)

Combeferre doesn’t miss the surprised and intrigued look that Enjolras throws the artist. R misses it. For someone who spends so much time looking at Enjolras, he is astoundingly apt at remaining ignorant of the looks he receives in turn.

+

"Hey do you remember when you were fifteen and wanted advice on how to finger yourself?" Combeferre comes home after a long day at Uni to press a tender kiss to Courfeyrac’s forehead. Courfeyrac, sighing and already busying himself with running his fingers beneath the back of Combeferre’s shirt to feel the warmth of his skin, only nods.

He hears Enjolras choke behind them and hears Grantaire laugh. Combeferre hadn’t realized they weren’t alone. (He’s here for another poster design, or rather, because Enjolras lured him here under false pretenses of claiming there was something wrong with his design, as Courfeyrac stage whispers.)

Enjolras stomps towards his room angrily and Grantaire remains at the counter, staring after him in confusion.

"He’s always been uptight about sex, R, not to worry."

"I think he’s uptight about the two of you, if I’m honest, not the sex. Enjolras has a mouth on him when he wants to, trust me. Hard not to feel like a third wheel with you guys, don’t you think?"

"We usually include him, he just doesn’t _want_ to be included when I teach Combeferre how to take it up the ass. He made that clear years ago."

But Grantaire is addressing something that has been bugging both of them for years now. Combeferre is once more struck with the desire to address the issue with Enjolras, but they’ve tried that before, and the answer has always been that he is fine with the way things are, at least in regard to the three of them. ("It’s the two of you that need to get your shit together," he had told them once, and had his own signature angry glares turned on him, much to his surprise.)

"No need to be crude," Combeferre chastises with a smile. Then he turns to Grantaire. "Excuse us, please."

+

Courfeyrac watching him work himself open is thrilling, in a way. Combeferre knows Courfeyrac is only pretending to be interested in The Constitution of the United States of America currently perched on his lap. Ever so often his eyes will flick upwards and Combeferre will notice the desire in them and it will send a spark right to his dick.

"This is supposed to feel good?" He wonders, after a while.

"Hell yeah it’s supposed to feel good." Courf nods, setting down his book.

"It doesn’t feel so hot, to be honest."

"Alright, let’s assess the damage," Courfeyrac pulls the covers away and then makes an enlightened sound.

"Your angle is all wrong, dearest."

"I don’t know which angle I’m supposed to hit."

"You’re a med student, you know where to find your prostate," Courfeyrac encourages. Two more minutes and Combeferre growls, a little frustrated. The single finger he managed slides out and he huffs.

"I’ve done like a thousand prostate exams, but I can’t reach my own. I am failure incarnate."

Courfeyrac grins, and flops onto his stomach to scoot down the bed. Combeferre watches as Courfeyrac squeezes some lube onto his finger and raises an eyebrow at him. His other hand runs up his calf and hooks behind his knee, pressing it backwards gently and allowing him access. "Maybe you don’t have one."

"Doubtful. You’ve seen me come, the prostate plays a huge part in that, also-"

"Alright, alright. Want me to go exploring?"

"You can try," Combeferre agrees and his breath catches a little when Courfeyrac slides a single digit in experimentally, humming all the while.

"Why does it feel so different when you do it?" Combeferre wonders as their eyes meet. This is perfect.

"I’m good at what I do?" Courf suggests with a grin. He pumps in and out slowly, pausing for a little. "Can I do another finger?"

" _You_ can do whatever you like," Ferre laughs, a little breathless now. It takes Courf about a minute or so of exploration until his finger finally and unmistakably hits the prostate and manages to wrestle a surprised moan from Combeferre. "Point for Courfeyrac, don’t you think, dearest?"

"Can you keep going?"

"Trying to see if you are one of the lucky few who can orgasm through prostate stimulation alone?"

"Unlikely, but it feels great, so if you don’t mind."

"You know what might also feel good?" Courfeyrac licks his lips, scheming like the schemer he is.

"Honestly by now I trust you to know what you’re doing so if you feel like, you know, I might like something, you’re probably right on target."

"Testing the hive mind, I see. Maybe we should keep a protocol. Hey, where did you put the dental dams? You used the packet last."

Courfeyrac’s mouth on him is a new kind of pleasure that makes him sweat as he struggles not to squirm. "Touch me, please, Courf," he hears himself plead despite the grip his teeth have on his lips. God, he hopes Enjolras and Grantaire can’t hear them. Is Grantaire still there? How long have they been in here? Courfeyrac brings him off with a few deliberate strokes and he forgets to care.

"You gotta practice fingering yourself, Ferre, that’s my professional advice." Courf curls up next to him. "You’ll hit all the right spots, eventually."

"Darling, you’re still hard and it’s poking me."

"Oh yeah," Courf murmurs as if he just now realizes his predicament, "Are you going to do something about it? A demonstration of what you’ve just learned, perhaps?"

"You know what, that actually sounds kind of fun."

+

Enjolras has something of a crisis when a protest goes wrong and, without seeming to think about it, Grantaire pushes him out of the way and ends up the unfortunate receiver of a baton to the face that breaks his nose yet again. By the end of it he masterfully maneuvers Enjolras away from danger – managing to catch plenty of more hits and leaving Enjolras unbruised – and they stumble into the apartment together.

"Third time is the charm," he jokes as Combeferre checks him for any further damage afterwards. There are a few bruises, nothing too worrying, until he finds a slash, undoubtedly made by a knife, across the back of his thighs. "Maybe this time my nose will magically be knocked back into a somewhat desirable shape. In any case it adds character, don’t you think so, Apollo?"

Enjolras is as white as a sheet when Combeferre informs him of the rather deep laceration and he rushes Grantaire to the hospital with more urgency than strictly necessary. He will hear nothing to protest it. "It could get infected, you said so yourself. God, what if he bleeds out, Combeferre? What _if he dies_? What do I do then? _Everything I could do would be useless_."

"Thibault," Enjolras murmurs later that night, when he returns from bringing Grantaire home and urging him to take his painkillers without alcohol and putting him to bed. He is sitting on the kitchen floor and staring at the drops of blood on his pants, their pristine white sullied. Combeferre takes a seat next to him with a great show of effort. He isn’t as white anymore, but he looks badly shaken.

"Come again?"

"His name is Thibault," Enjolras reiterates in a voice filled with emotion, as if that name holds all the answers. Maybe, in a way it does. Perhaps Enjolras’ brain has finally caught on to what his heart has been saying for the longest time. Combeferre does not push too hard, that is Courfeyrac’s job and Courfeyrac is currently out with a guy he met at the protest, sending Combeferre intermittent updates about the awesome sex they’re having. It makes him smile.

He lets Enjolras lift his arm up and cuddle against his chest. "I begin to see why this is Courfeyrac’s natural habitat."

Combeferre laughs.

+

"What are they doing?" Joly’s voice is caught somewhere between admiration and confusion when he enters behind Enjolras, who snorts.

"They are having a stroking session," he answers. Enjolras is used to this. Anyone else isn’t.

Combeferre sits on the couch, shirtless and in red joggers that don’t reach his knee. Courfeyrac, also shirtless but in cut-off jeans, has his head resting in Combeferre’s lap as he stares up at Combeferre, running his hand over his chest reverently. His other hand is reaching backwards to curl around Combeferre’s admittedly hairy thigh. 

"Like, I see that, but _what_?"

Combeferre, pushing his glasses back up his nose and running a hand through his own hair for a change, glares at what he perceives to be intruders. Enjolras sets to explaining.

"It’s weird. Ferre was out of town for a few days and when they don’t touch each other for longer than a few minutes they become whiny little useless idiots who like to torment their loving roommate by-"

"Fuck off," Courfeyrac manages from the couch, where Combeferre has begun caressing his cheek.

Courfeyrac honest to god runs a hand over Combeferre’s pectorals, carefully honed in the gym, while Combeferre puts a finger to his lips. It isn’t sexual, both Joly and Enjolras see that clearly from the couch. It’s just incomprehensible.

"You see, I get a joyful hug, and Courfeyrac gets the full program of ‘recovering from touch-starvation’, apparently," Enjolras begins brewing coffee.

"You don’t let anyone touch you casually, Enj, you never have," Combeferre says mildly, hand running along Courfeyrac’s clavicle.

"Except for R. I bet you’d let him touch you."

Enjolras largely ignores Courfeyrac’s accurate diversion and raises a haughty brow.

"I really don’t understand why the two of you need to map out every new neuron you acquired. You’ve been apart for three days, that’s it."

"Shh, it’s fascinating," Joly says, observing them from the counter raptly. A natural scientific curiosity for absurd things, Combeferre concedes. He feels much the same when he witnesses Bossuet reliably trip over the last stair of the Corinth night after night. He wants to understand how it works.

Courf and Combeferrre stare at each other. Combeferre’s hand is apparently a little tighter on his neck than usual. There’s a barely noticeable intake of breath. Joly and Enjolras watch in fascination and horror respectively as Combeferre’s brows knit together for a second. He squeezes. Then he stops. Courf nods. Combeferre nods. That’s it. They continue as if nothing happened.

"Congrats, Joly, you just witnessed Courfeyrac’s newest kink being born," says Enjolras, before ushering the fascinated medical student into his room.

+

"I mean, honestly, Courf, when was the last time you got off?" Bahorel cajoles him after one of the meetings. He’s curled up on Combeferre’s lap again, wrapped in strong arms that he loves more than anything else.

"Last night," he responds, languidly. "My sex life is _very_ fine, thank you very much."

"And who with?"

"I’ll tell you when you actually manage to introduce your significant other," Courfeyrac retorts easily. 

Combeferre laughs. Last night they tried deep-throating. It involved the consultation of numerous forums but in the end both of them agreed that they were getting there. ‘ _Practice, my dear, practice._ ’

On the way home Combeferre addresses something he noticed.

"Enj left with R tonight."

"I saw that coming from a mile away and I’m so knackered my brain might as well be made of cotton. Are you honestly surprised or is that supposed to segue into a discussion you want to have?"

"Neither of us has dated anyone since Maurice broke up with me."

"Oh, worm?" Courf stops, surprised.

"That’s my line."

(Years ago, still in high school, when Combeferre had a particularly enthusiastic phase of studying Vermes, his phone had autocorrected ‘word’ into a noun more frequently used, apparently.)

"I mean, you’re right. I hadn’t thought about it. Are you curious to start dating again? Test out the skills we’ve so carefully honed? Anyone I know?"

"No, my curiosity stems from the fact that I want to know what you taste like without a condom."

Courf nods as if this makes sense. To them, he supposes it does. He can’t say he isn’t equally curious.

"Let’s get tested then, yeah? Tomorrow?"

"Good call."

Man, he really loves his best friend.

+

Courf finishes into his mouth with a guttural whine that rips through Combeferre like a shockwave. It is divine.

"Oh my god, that really doesn’t taste bad."

"Knew there was a benefit to you turning me vegan all those years ago," Courfeyrac laughs, before sucking Combeferre to completion. Afterwards, he shifts so that they are face to face again instead of the rather intricate position they’ve taken pains to perfect. ("Consider it a challenge, darling, to see if we can manage not to bite each other’s dicks off while we are trying to reach mutual completion," Courfeyrac had grinned when he first suggested it. Now it is a favorite. The coordination and trust required is right up their alley, and one or two small accidents involving teeth are easily forgiven in the name of science and experimentation.)

"Okay, so, from now on, until one of us starts dating again, we can save money on the condoms, yeah?" He suggests when he comes up for air again.

The trust that one would tell the other is implicit. Neither doubts the integrity of the other for a second.

(Neither of them thinks about dating, if they’re being totally honest.)

+

Courfeyrac gets propositioned a lot as a consequence of his natural charm. Grantaire sometimes jokes that he should bottle it up and sell it, though he will frown and shake his head when Courfeyrac points out that he could join in, seeing as he isn’t lacking in that department either.

This time the prospective hopeful is the barista in their coffee shop who slips him her number. He smiles at her and thanks her, but once they round the corner he tears it up and yells ‘YEET’ as he tosses it into the trash. "Better start looking for a new coffee shop."

"She’s your type though, isn’t she?"

"I guess," he shrugs, "Not really interested in dating right now though."

Courfeyrac meets Étienne during a protest. Étienne has beautiful dark hair, vivacious eyes and a killer smile. He’s two years ahead of Combeferre in med school, he doesn’t eat meat. In short, he is perfect for Combeferre.

Courfeyrac introduces them and watches ecstatically as Combeferre takes him in. ("He eats dairy though, so like, use protection when you blow him.")

+

Combeferre comes home late from meeting up with Étienne, Courfeyrac is already asleep, but he wakes up when Combeferre wraps his arms around him so tightly it almost cuts off his air. Ferre presses short, almost desperate kisses to his neck, exhaling so sharply it almost sounds like he is in pain.

"Dearest? It didn’t go well, I take it?"

"You wanna know what he said?"

Courfeyrac does want to know, because Ferre sounds upset and he hates that.

"He said that he isn’t down with us being ‘unnaturally close’, that he wants exclusivity, before we even kissed."

Honestly, both of them thought they left that kind of rhetoric behind in high school. They’ve gotten better at filtering out whoever might disparage their closeness. Still, sometimes you misjudge a person and then Combeferre ends up hurt. Courfeyrac needs to step up his game.

"I mean, you can have that with him if you like him though, can’t you?"

"I don’t want it. He isn’t worth putting you second. Ever. No one is."

"Aww, baby," Courf turns around to cuddle into Combeferre, as tight as he can. It goes unsaid that Courfeyrac feels much the same way, but the implication lingers in the air around them when they press their foreheads together. They stop actively trying to date. Their friends don’t notice.

+

Enjolras and Grantaire make things official in the way they do everything, which is bizarrely dramatic and largely unprompted. Grantaire is being hit on by a patron at the Corinth during one of his late shifts. Combeferre has not entirely given up the tradition of sitting at the bar and studying, but almost all of their closest friends are within shouting distance right now. He hears Courfeyrac’s enthusiastic conversation with Jehan about their new succulents, and occasionally he catches snippets of Feuilly’s and Bahorel’s intense discussion on whether or not Bahorel should hand in his essays on time. It is Feuilly that has mainly been behind Bahorel’s renewed efforts to try and graduate. Not through any particular intervention on Feuilly’s side, but because Bahorel feels profoundly guilty sitting on his parent’s money for years and squandering time while Feuilly struggles through several jobs to try and finish his own studies at some point. They are the same age and different factors have put them in the same situation.

Guilt is a new thing for Bahorel, but he accepts it like he accepts anything the world throws at him, and adapts to accommodate. His grades get a little better, and Combeferre feels dismayed at just how proud he is of him. Occasionally Combeferre thinks that he has let go of his academic prejudices, and then he catches himself thinking such horribly judgmental things that he is ashamed. ("Well," Courfeyrac will say to that when he voices his concern, "Intent is important in these kind of situations. And you can’t help what you feel. What matters more is how you act on these feelings, and I find no fault with you in that regard.")

In any case, Grantaire is indulging the customer just a little because tonight has been very slow regarding tips and despite what he may claim Grantaire enjoys being flirted with. Combeferre understands the desire for a confidence boost. He remembers how Courfeyrac compliments every new pair of glasses he gets and how good that always makes him feel. Enjolras, on the other hand, is not pleased at all. When glowering from a distance does not dissuade the charming patron, he moves on to glowering from close proximity. All their friends hold their breath when Enjolras clears his throat after minutes of not being paid attention to. Grantaire raises an eyebrow at Enjolras, a challenge, a perverse ‘what are you going to do about it?’ left unspoken but understood by all.

What Enjolras ends up doing about it is pulling Grantaire across the bar and kissing him like a practiced seductress, passion and promise intermingling and leaving the flirtatious patron in retreat, tail tucked between his legs. He and Grantaire pull apart gasping for breath, Grantaire starry-eyed and dazed, Enjolras helplessly turned on and unable to do anything about it while Grantaire’s shift isn’t over.

Combeferre catches part of their conversation.

"You can’t possibly think anyone could ever hold a candle to you?"

"You flirted back," Enjolras growls. Grantaire rolls his eyes, torn between amusement and indignation.

"You don’t understand," he says eventually, "Look at yourself in the mirror, Enjolras. And, I know, I know, you don’t care about looks, I’ve heard that speech more than I can count. But it’s just nice to hear it sometimes. It’s nice to know that there are some people who wouldn’t say no to me on a purely physical basis."

Enjolras gives everything he feels away to Combeferre by sticking a thumb he hadn’t realized he was biting anxiously into his pocket as soon as Courfeyrac clears his throat and pointedly looks at the spit-covered digit.

Enjolras, probably remembering what Courfeyrac keeps telling him about empathy and the standards he sets for himself, leans across the bar and gives Grantaire another kiss, gentler this time and reassuring, just what Grantaire needs. "I’ll try to understand. Give me some time to work through it in my head, yeah?"

Grantaire beams, reaching out a hand to flick Enjolras’ nose. "Thank you, Apollo."

Sometimes Enjolras complains that it isn't fair that a deep understanding à la C-squared does not come without effort, but Courfeyrac and Combeferre both see how hard he works to understand Grantaire, by all accounts not an easy man to figure out. 

Enjolras crawls into their bed that night, laying on top of the comforter because skin-on-skin contact for prolonged hours still makes him feel nauseous, babbling away as he lays out his thoughts on Grantaire. Combeferre and Courfeyrac, shocked but pleased to receive such fascinating insight into his mind, do him the courtesy of not mentioning that they are fully naked beneath the sheets and, up until a few moments ago, were fully hard and ready to go.

+

Courfeyrac is texting, sitting on a bench next to Combeferre deeply engrossed in some medical text as they hold pinkies. It’s become a running joke amongst les Amis for years that they cannot go three seconds without touching one another, perpetuated by Enjolras and fully immortalized by Grantaire in his sketches, once or twice.

A guy approaches him, handsome and tall, definitely his type at a first glance. Only, he opens his mouth and the voice is wrong. It isn’t what Courfeyrac wants. He’s never been particularly shallow in regards to potential partners, but recently he has been consistently dismissing anyone who approaches him. Sighing, Courf holds up the hand he is holding.

"Oh, sorry, my bad."

"Why’d you do that?" Combeferre wonders after the potential suitor has made his retreat. Courf shrugs.

"Not interested, I guess."

If Enjolras were here, he would clear his throat pointedly and frown at them like he does best.

+

They’re sitting entangled in one another on the couch in their living room, Les Amis scattered in a circle with them. Everyone is mildly buzzed and loosened up. It’s a nice night.

Cosette, Marius’ new girlfriend, is astounded to find out they aren’t together. "Like, you’ve never even kissed?"

"Oh no, they’ve kissed plenty of times," Enjolras snorts from where he is leaning against Grantaire, one hand fisted in the fabric of his extremely well-worn grey t-shirt. For all his comments about the physicality of Combeferre and Courfeyrac, he has immense trouble letting go of Grantaire at any given moment. Even if Grantaire is hesitant to touch him in return sometimes on account of his usual preference, he greedily soaks up the affection Enjolras throws at him while in public, not understanding that he is a notable exception to pretty much all of Enjolras’ rules. Combeferre can’t know for sure what they are like in private, but Grantaire has a sudden propensity for wearing turtlenecks or scarves ever since they got together, and that is almost as telling as just letting them see the hickeys Enjolras covers him in. (At one point Courfeyrac will catch Grantaire coming out of the shower in nothing but a towel and rush into their room to alert Combeferre that they need to _step up their game, there is no way Enjolras can paint pictures with hickeys, he knows nothing about art._ _Well_ , Combeferre will respond, _he took an interest in Art years ago when he took an interest in Grantaire_. Space will have long since been made on his private shelves for biographies of certain artists Grantaire mentions by and by and literature on different periods he likes most in an attempt to understand what he could not process a few years ago. ‘How can anyone _know_ so much about so many subjects?’) "They almost got expelled for kissing when we were six."

Courfeyrac and Combeferre both smile in mutual remembrance. "That principal hated us so much after you kissed me in his office."

"Someone explain!" Musichetta exclaims, gleefully. Enjolras takes up the task, reviving his well-known talent for dramatic storytelling.

"Courf’s Mom used to kiss him on the lips and tell him that if someone was really important to you, you should kiss them. So Courf just runs up to Combeferre as he is digging for worms-"

"Bugs, it was bugs," Combeferre interrupts, as if that were truly an important detail to anyone but him and Courfeyrac. _Odontotarsus. Ordolotontusetarsus. Oleidheuthsasus. Ordonthopedics._ Courfeyrac likes making up names for the bug they found whenever he and Combeferre recount the past fondly. Worms came later. 

"Bugs, then," Enjolras amends generously, "And he just plants one on him. You know, like a peck. And Combeferre just gets this huge smile on his face and does the same. And then they just kept doing it. All the time."

"Why did we stop?" Courf wonders, turning to Combeferre. Both of them realize at the same time that they probably haven’t kissed each other on the lips in years.

Combeferre remembers first.

"Ah, puberty. You were thirteen and had your first little girlfriend. What was her name? Patrice? She thought it was weird, so we stopped. Also, general homophobia in school and society was a factor. People kept assuming we were together and it was ‘cramping both our styles’."

"Ah, true," Courf nods, "God, Patrice was so lame."

Combeferre laughs, brown eyes narrowed and crinkling. Courf leans upwards and pecks him on the lips, grinning.

" _Exactly_ like that," Enjolras, revealing that he has had perhaps a drink or two too many tonight, yells. Combeferre grins in return. (Apparently, another joke among Les Amis is that no one but Courf can make Combeferre grin.  Neither of them have sought to disprove that theory, as they might be onto something.)

Combeferre presses another kiss onto Courfeyrac’s lips, and both men feel warm and happy as they go back to cuddling.

+

"I mean, sure, just slide it right in if you want, three fingers is an excessive stretch anyway at this point. You haven’t been with anyone since the last check up, right?" Courf wonders, peering up at Combeferre, poised on top of him. He shakes his head. "Just you."

"Well then go right ahead," he invites.

"Something else first," Combeferre murmurs, and leans down to kiss Courfeyrac. Their first real kiss, in that this is the first time they have not just pecked one another on the lips. This time, their lips slide together slowly and languidly, savoring, delighting in exploring one another. Courf forgets about his previous eagerness to be filled up as they spend hours just making out. ("How is it that this is the first time we’ve done that, darling?" Combeferre will ask after drawing away. "We’re dumb, that’s how," Courf will answer, before pulling him right back down.)

+

They’ve been inadvertently exclusive for almost five years when Enjolras finally walks in on them as they are making out in the kitchen. He’s just about ready to walk backwards out of that door but Grantaire enters behind him and stops him.

"So this is it then, you guys have finally noticed that your sexual tension is off the charts?"

"Don’t be silly, Apollo, they’ve been fucking for years," Grantaire dismisses. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are both slack-jawed.

"How did-"

"Enjolras is a heavy sleeper. I am not. You share a wall. Let’s be real, you guys."

"Well, shit, why didn’t you ever say anything?" Courf wants to know.

"You never said anything about the pathetic crush I harbored on Enjolras for months, so I figured fair is fair."

"God among men, Grantaire. God among men."

+

"We’ve really been together for years though, haven’t we?" Combeferre asks when they’re lying in bed that night. Courf lifts his head to fully look at him.

"I’ll be honest," he sighs, "I don’t want anybody else. I haven’t wanted anybody else for years. If you’re down with that we should continue."

"Hive mind, I’m telling you." Combeferre kisses him, grinning.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> a few explanations:  
> \- Combeferre is a lactose-intolerant Bengali Hindu in this. The Bengali word in this story means dearest mother, according to my sources. Please correct me if that is wrong? Jeetu was his father's name, in case that wasn't clear.  
> \- Mary Shelley, author of Frankenstein, did learn to write on her mother's grave. She also lost her virginity on that grave, but Enjolras is not quite as peculiar. Anyway, Mary Shelley was pretty awesome.  
> -'The Maghreb' are Africa's Northern countries, like Morocco, Algeria, Tunisia, etc. Due to them being ex-colonies of France, mainland France now has a lot of immigrants from there & racial tensions are VERY high, particularly in the banlieues outside of Paris.  
> -Mr. Mistoffelees is from the Musical Cats - is Courfeyrac a furry? Who knows.  
> -Mutton Biriyani is a traditional Bengalese dish, but since the Combeferre family is vegan his mother made it with vegetables and rice instead.  
> -Corinth was a Greek City State in ye ancient days  
> \- Francois Hollande was a former French President notorious for how public his love life was. From divorcing his wife for his mistress and then leaving her for a supermodel and being caught sneaking out of her Hotel on a scooter to bestowing cheek kisses on every Lady he meets, that guy was certainly something.


End file.
